It was the way you didn’t understand

passion unless it was

passion fruit vodka, but you know

how to fuck, and it was

enough, enough for you, but

it wasn’t what I needed when

I’d been awake all night, watching

the luminous numbers drip away

because you were beautiful and you

couldn’t love me.

I was the way you showed no

interest in me, even after your

lips found mine on that frosty day in

November, when you had a

girlfriend and I was intoxicated

with the taste of your mint gum.

It was the way your arms were too

long to be proportional to your body and

kept me safe in my dreams, until

you rolled away in the middle

of the night and cringed when

my skin brushed yours.

It was the way you threw

bold-faced words at me in

the middle of the street, trying

to hurt me, but not seeing the

indifference I had borrowed from

sweatshirts and mix CDs now in

uniform boxes along the wall.

And now it’s the way your blatant

I’ll wait for you forever stabs me like

an IV needle being put in by a

pale-faced and clammy intern because

I was never worth the truth from you.